


The Party

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Hijinks ensue at a party in 1989, as Edge comes to terms with the fact that he is a human disaster.





	The Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissEllaVation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/gifts).



> *waves*  
> Hi, I'm SO SORRY, I WROTE ANOTHER FIC, someone stop me. And it's not even the fic I set out to write. This turned out far sillier than the one I had planned, without the sexytimes that I figured might come about. I'm sorry. I'll try again next time. And next time. And also finish Nexus. It's going to happen people. I promise! Thank you to all that read this, I do appreciate it, even if this one was mostly just to make me laugh. I wrote this in a couple of hours, so any mistakes....are just me flailing a bit too quickly

They were drunk. In fact, if Edge were forced to put a name to their current state of being, fucking hammered would be the first thing he’d pull out his hat—if only he could find that hat.

It had been firmly on his head when he’d arrived at the party, but a lot had happened in the time since. His thoughts had turned spotty fast, as though whole sections of the frame had been lifted from the film, _his_ film. And he had to admit, even on the sections that remained, of which involved his arrival—wearing his hat—leading to his jumping into the pool fully clothed, to laughing and drinking and watching the happenings, and of course, to Bono, even then the footage was blurred. Although perhaps that was just because of how he was. Fucking hammered. They both were, though Edge was aware enough to know of this fact, to know of a few things actually, and he certainly still knew right from wrong. Of course, knowing was a whole different ballgame.

He knew he shouldn’t—regarding a number of things—just as he knew that tomorrow him would be mighty sore. . .regarding a number of things. And there was probably an order to which he might list those things tomorrow, starting from the worst and then working his way down to the stuff that might make him shake his head, sure, but weren’t enough to haunt him for the rest of his days. If he remembered any of it. Presently, he figured there was a good chance he might, but the night was young and from where he was standing (figure of speech, as he was, in fact, kneeling. . .), in a bathroom that was much too small, it seemed like he might just soon enough have a reason to drink until there was nothing left. Nothing on the drinks table or in his memory, whichever came first. Unfortunately for future Edge, it took a lot of alcohol to leave him completely black out drunk. Whole sections might have been lifted, but it took a lot to delete the entire film. A _lot_.

There was already so much to regret tomorrow. Oh, he was already in trouble, and that list was soon to grow. Though considering the events leading up to him kneeling in front of a toilet, perhaps he had a chance. Perhaps he had more than a chance, and might not even regret it afterwards. Perhaps. But before he could quite get there, Edge briefly found himself distracted. “I don’t remember taking it off. Do you remember?”

“It’s a fuckin’ hat, for fuck sake.” From the look on Bono’s face, it seemed he didn’t appreciate how the conversation had sidetracked. He’d been smiling a moment ago. A smile that was new to Edge, and he’d seen so many of them in the past. That smile, on that mouth.  And there Edge was, wiping it away by bringing up hats. But it wasn’t just hats. It wasn’t just a smile. It wasn’t just anything, it was something. Something new. He knew right from wrong, of course he did, but how could he not do the wrong thing at such a time? “Will you shut up when I buy you a new one?”

“What?”

“ _Eeedddge_.” There was Bono, busting out his strongest argument: whining. Somehow, it always worked for him. A real winner, that was him. And there, on his face, right where Edge couldn’t think to look away from, that smile started to appear once again. Slow at first, because Edge had dared to bring up a fucking hat (make him wait for it, it’s what he deserves. A hat? His hat? He had at least twelve hats, what was even the problem?) but it was coming back. Coming back strong, with a helluva convincing argument. “How’s it look?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Edge managed after a pause, though really, the word _amazing_ sprung to mind. That smile, on that mouth. Amazing. Poets could have written sonnets about that mouth. Edge knew poetry; he’d written a few of his own. They were not to be read by others. They were most definitely not to be read by her. She’d go looking for her name, and Edge wouldn’t know what to tell her. How had his life become so fucking disastrous? Was he looking at the reason? It seemed possible. What didn’t seem possible when looking at something that was, by his definition, amazing? Though the smile had slipped. Just a little, and it took Edge far too long to notice. But when he did, it seemed like one of the worst things to ever happen in his goddamn life. “What?”

Bono laughed. Edge knew that laugh, even when he didn’t feel he knew much. There was confusion there, mixed with that special something that was purely Bono. And then he was looking away from Edge and towards his own knee, which. . .which was still bleeding a little. Right. Yes. The whole reason why they’d come in to the bathroom in the first place. Because Bono was a fucking idiot. Skateboards? He could barely handle it sober, but still it had seemed like such a fantastic idea at the time. _What could possibly go wrong_  seemed to be the thought of the night. Of their entire fucking lives, but still Bono was smiling, even as he said, “Where did you go to medical school,” though there was a stumbling of words between _medical_ and _school_.

There had been a few stumblings that night, in words and in steps. At least two had happened on their way through the house, as Bono insisted that he was fine—a number of times—and then accused Edge of ruining the party. Because, of course, dragging away the life of the party was the best way to ruin said party. “I’m barely bleeding,” he’d tried, before asking, “Where’s the beach?” To which Edge had asked _why_ , stalling for time while he attempted to remember what part of the city they were in, because a swim in the ocean actually sounded like something he would enjoy better than a dip in the pool, fully clothed.  His shirt had only just stopped dripping. “Salt water, Edge!” Bono had exclaimed in response, before stumbling over fucking nothing, and in the time it took for Edge’s brain to relate _salt water_ to _bleeding, open wound_ , Bono had found a distraction. “Shh, listen. No, stop here and _listen_.”

They had stopped in front of a closed bedroom door and listened, like a couple of perverts. There had been moaning. There had been lots of moaning, and a few other sounds that were not meant to be heard by others, and yet moving away from the door proved to be something that Edge just hadn’t been able to do. “Woo!” Bono had let out, before immediately realizing his error. “Woo,” he had repeated, in a far quieter voice, turning to charm Edge with the most winning of smiles. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Edge knew jokes. He could handle jokes, even the bad ones. Sometimes he came up with his own jokes, and they were the bad ones. After so many years, he certainly knew what Bono sounded like when he made a joke. That line? _Joke_. Because of course it was, and yet as soon as the words left Bono’s lips Edge’s brain had started something. It wasn’t his fault, really. He was, after all, fucking hammered and couldn’t be blamed for such thoughts. Even if those thoughts had kinda already been simmering, but that wasn't important. Nope, not important when he could just ignore them. Often he could, but. . .

He knew right and wrong, sure, but his brain had other ideas, standing there by the door, listening to the sounds of sex happening, with Bono at his side. Bono, smiling at him—that smile, on that mouth—as he said his little joke. It was ridiculous, how quickly he had imagined making Bono moan, all the different ways he could accomplish that. Would they be in a bed? Locked in an airplane toilet? Backstage where they could easily get caught but never would, because that’s just how fantasies worked, and they were fucking incredible that way. Edge had plenty of ideas, and he knew how Bono sounded. Knew it without a doubt. He’d heard it in his ear many times. On stage, of course. On stage? There was another place he could imagine them. The audience would be so generous, waiting patiently until they finished going at it to start cheering once again. Hell, they could make it a fucking encore. Larry would be so pleased. Adam, who even knew with Adam sometimes? He might even—

“Edge.”

That smile was still there. It had barely left Bono’s face since the moment they had rushed away from the door, giggling like a couple of loons, hand on his wrist, fingers curled in ways that felt like a suggestion. After trying at least three doors, all of which led to another fucking bedroom, causing Bono to shout, “This house puts mine to shame, and I won’t allow it!” they stumbled upon the smallest of bathrooms. In a past life it might have been a closet. But there were band aids in the cabinet, and the size of the room resulted in them pressing closer than usual, Bono crowding him up against the sink with that smile on his face, for longer than strictly necessary. With all the giggling and looks that were being thrown about, it had taken a stupidly long time to attend to Bono’s knee. Edge didn’t know much, but he knew how time worked.

He knew how Bono worked too.

He knew what Bono looked like flirting. He’d seen it so many times. And since the moment they had rushed away from that bedroom door, it had been coming through in technicolour. Aimed at him. At little ole Edge, who was completely weak when it came to all things Bono. Who had some tricks up his own sleeve. Who had blown on Bono’s bleeding knee with the slightest of breaths, assuming he was being tantalizing, that Bono would just grab him and kiss him, right then and there, and when it hadn't happened Edge had been a bit put out, sure, but he was also hammered. Drunk him didn’t stop when the goings got tough. Drunk him jumped in pools fully clothed and was relentless in seducing his best friend. Drunk him misplaced his hat and regretted all of the things that had come to pass the next day, with a throbbing head. What a guy. What a fucking guy Drunk Edge was.

“Earth to Edge, come _iiiiiiinnnn_.”

“Bono,” Edge started, then stopped. That smile was still there, yes, but it was something more. Something in Bono’s eyes as he looked down at Edge. And in the way he bit his lip, just a little, and how his knees parted. Just a little. And then a little more, giving Edge nearly enough room to shuffle forward and press up against the toilet, up against Bono. If that was what he wanted to do. There were a few things he could do, if that was what he wanted. Had they locked the door? Had they talked about this, during one of those sections that had been lifted? _Should_ they talk about this?

Fuck it.

He reached out a hand, and Bono’s eyes widened only when Edge found his zipper. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

Fuck.

Edge retreated. He retreated fast. He might even have retreated out of the room, out of the house and straight on towards one of those beaches that he just couldn’t figure the location of, if he hadn’t been so bolted to the ground. He’d tried to touch his best friend’s cock. He’d planned to touch his best friend’s cock. And the thing he had figured he might do to his best friend’s cock? That was a thing that had almost happened. And now they had to live with that. Forever. The band? Forget about the band, the band was fucking over. Bono could now tell the world, “I was just being me, like I always am, and Edge grabbed my cock out of fucking nowhere”, and when Edge protested, “Look, I didn’t actually make contact with the cock,” they wouldn’t listen, because what was a little embellishment when the intent had been there? Oh Jesus, he might have well grabbed Bono’s cock. It would have been just as bad. It was so bad, so so bad. Tomorrow Edge was in for a treat, because it might have been bad enough had Bono been into it, because of all the million reasons that Edge couldn’t begin to think of, but _mistake_ about summed them all up, but this? Drowning in the fucking surf would be a welcome relief.

“Sorry,” Edge said, because someone had to say _something_. “I, uh. Didn’t mean to.”

He was a walking human disaster.  It was tempting to shove Bono to the ground and drown himself in the toilet. Why wait for the beach?

There was silence. Bono, for his part, appeared just as frozen as Edge, his hands still raised in the air. But then he blinked. Slowly, his hands came down. A smile crossed his face. _That_ smile. “M’sorry.” His laughter rang loudly through the room. “I just—you, I didn’t think you. . . I was surprised?”

More silence. Edge wasn’t quite sure what to think, but Bono was still smiling, he’d said fucking sorry, and he’d not pushed Edge away in horror and stormed from the room to immediately call a band meeting. That had to count for something. And then there was that look in his eye. That eyebrow being raised, like it often did, but this time it struck Edge as curious. What was Bono thinking? Good things, hopefully. Edge almost asked, but he couldn’t. He could barely breathe. The room was slightly spinning, and it had done that earlier, but this time was different. Everything was different now. Thank god that he was drunk. All that alcohol helped dampen the trauma he was feeling. So. Much. Trauma. Tomorrow him was going to be fuckin’ _pissed_.

Eventually something had to give. Bono could only be silent for so long, after all. And it was him that spoke first. Because of course it was. How could Edge even think to speak, after groping his best friend? “You know. . .” Shaking his head, Bono let out a laugh. A smile still lingered when he fell quiet. That smile, on that mouth, as his gaze burned straight through Edge. “I didn’t say stop.”

 


End file.
